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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23750521">those nights.</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/alekstraordinary/pseuds/alekstraordinary'>alekstraordinary</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Gotham (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Emotions, Established Relationship, M/M, Psychopaths In Love, it's about sex but it's not explicit, they just express emotions in weird ways</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-04-20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-04-20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 10:34:05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,153</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23750521</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/alekstraordinary/pseuds/alekstraordinary</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>People they were, unable to experience nor process emotions in a healthy or rational manner, there was no way for them to express them either, but they would find their own ways to communicate what they were feeling, however extreme in their preception it could be.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Oswald Cobblepot/Edward Nygma</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>34</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>those nights.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Nights in Gotham seldom were merely the end of the day, for the majority of the time they were creatures of their own, vicious and thirsty, waiting for the sun to hide behind the horizon to come out and claim their prey. Theft, and robbery, and murder, and assault, and fighting, and scheming—all of the things too vile to take place under the clear blue sky were to happen when the shadows spread through every corner, and the world was only illuminated by sickly and flickering yellow lamps sprouting along dirty streets. All that should not be done not now, not ever, would be done once the pale moon struggled for hours to show its face from behind the billowing dark clouds spread over the high buildings and cold water like a thick blanket. Under the cover of the darkness the shameful, the ugly and the dangerous emerged from people—their true faces, their buried secrets, and their deep desires. Indeed, the night was a dangerous time, often forcing the wrong things into the wrong places. A knife in someone else’s belly, a hand in someone else’s pocket, a tongue in someone else’s mouth. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It was precisely in circumstances such as these when their relationship had first begun, although neither Oswald nor Edward particularly cared to remember the exact night when they had become closer. They knew that there had always been a connection between them, ever since that first time they had met by accident at the G.C.P.D. Or, perhaps, it was less of a coincidence and more of the fate Edward spoke of the second time they met. And albeit even after that there still would be long months before the tensed air and sparks crackling in the air between them would be ignited, they were already growing intimate during the nights spent in the green-lit apartment—a bullet wound in Oswald’s shoulder and a confusing ache in Edward’s chest. Then when the impatient sizzling finally turned into flames, there was no longer turning back or escape from the fire devouring them from inside out, a bond burnt into mind and soul that could only be born as one of the night’s terrors. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>From then on, Oswald and Edward had become close to addicted to each other, and each look thrown from across the room and each fleeting touch like a drug, awakening hunger deep inside them; like an itch that couldn’t be properly scratched unless it was only the two of them, free to do however they pleased. People they were, unable to experience nor process emotions in a healthy or rational manner, there was no way for them to express them either, but they would find their own ways to communicate what they were feeling, however extreme in their preception it could be.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sometimes it was rough and angry. After a mistake had been made on either one of the sides, a wrong word spoken and a crooked look given, or when they had just come to remember that when one of them was gone, the gaping hole in the other one’s chest brought more pain than possible to bear. There was a lot of biting and scratching then, teeth pinching at earlobes and lips, nails digging into shoulders and raking over backs. Hands were clenching a little too tightly around wrists and ankles, pulling at unnecessary layers of clothes and tugging at ruffled hair. Among beads of sweat, were was one or two drops of blood, rising up in the corner of someone’s mouth or on clawed skin. Through harsh gasps, rapid movements, and barely coherent </span>
  <em>
    <span>I hate you</span>
  </em>
  <span>’s, they reminded themselves that the deep-seated carving they had for one another would never be eased by anyone else, and if they were to drift away from each other, they would die from starvation. Sometimes they parted ways once the hunger was satisfied, but other times they stayed together, still with a dull ache in their stomachs, only to wake up to swollen lips, bruised necks, and sore muscles. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Other times it was impatient and desperate. After they had barely escaped an altercation gone wrong, unpredicted advertisers arising, or coming a stroke of luck too close to a final brush with death, when their vines were still full of adrenaline, and their frames were shaking with something one shade too close to fear. More than a third of these instances they never made it to the nearest space where their privacy was guaranteed, too busy with tucking themselves away from the world, yet with the whole world being in the other one’s panicked eyes. Their lips rarely found each other, stumbling and pressing down firmly for a split of a second, only to move someplace else. Hands were twitching then, desperate and almost scared, scouring endless miles of skin in search of something—cuts, and wounds, and blood, but also warmth and proofs of life. With their breathing short, bodies pressed firmly against each other, and choked </span>
  <em>
    <span>you idiot</span>
  </em>
  <span>’s and </span>
  <em>
    <span>how dare you do this to me</span>
  </em>
  <span>’s, they made sure that the other one was still there, that they made it out alive. And even when the bickering, anger, and frustration arose again, they stayed there, close, checking if the other wouldn’t disappear again after all. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And then, on those rare occasions spread unevenly and sparsely over chaotic weeks, it was soft, and careful, and gentle. Hardly did it happen when there was no reason to stress or to worry, when everything seemed to be under control, and for once in a long time there was no Riddler and Penguin—there was just Edward and Oswald, together. Clean sheets underneath heated bodies, warm hands on soft skin. Their lips connected for endless, but oh so sweet moments that left them breathless, but never satisfied; fingers reaching out not to grab and possess, but to caress, and take care of. Arms forming comfortable cages neither one of them ever wished to leave, their hair stroked with so much tenderness it sent shivers down their spines, trapping soft gasps in their chests. Someone’s nose would find its place into the crook of the other one’s neck, fingers intertwined on the pillows, thumbs stroking the flushed curves of cheeks. Although they would never acknowledge it outside of those brief periods when they were both spilt open, with their trembling hearts out and their souls bared, every so often there would be small and broken, almost inaudible </span>
  <em>
    <span>I love you</span>
  </em>
  <span>’s. Times like these were fleeting and short-lived, often interrupted by their true selves banging on the walls and windows, reminding them who they really were. But, sometimes, on nights even rarer, they managed to forget what monsters really lived underneath the skin so thoroughly and lovingly peppered with light kisses behind tightly shut doors. During those nights they almost felt safe, and capable of love. </span>
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